Be True to Me

by Adele Griffin

  Back at Whisper, I showered and changed in the Tullivers’ bathroom. At least the earrings were perfect. I tilted my head this way and that way, staring at myself in the medicine-cabinet mirror. The afternoon light threw a prism across my face, like a church’s stained-glass window.

  Dot’s pounding on the door snapped me out of it. “Hey, Fritz! You gonna let me do your hair like you said?”

  “Sure.”

  She came in with her magazine in one hand and her wire Snoopy brush in the other. I sat on the toilet while Dot went at me, creating two French braids from the how-to pages of her Young Miss, using her orthodontic rubber bands, plus a zillion stabbing bobby pins.

  “Pretty snazzy,” she said when she’d finished. “I should charge you a coupla bucks for this.”

  “Nice try, Dotty. I feel like I got scalped.” Galloping downstairs before Dot could keep demanding payment, I flung myself outside and flopped onto the Tullivers’ porch hammock.

  Through the kitchen window, I heard Julia’s dad complaining to her mom about how his tie was too tight. Mr. Tulliver hadn’t been in the army for years, but he still reminded me of my own dad: how he didn’t like to wear dressy “civvies”—civilian clothes—and loved his sunrise runs, and sang paratrooper songs about jumping out of C-130s.

  When Julia stepped out onto the porch, she gave me a look and pulled a face. “I can’t handle you in that dress. It’s so not you.”

  “Don’t you think the earrings save it?”

  “I don’t think so. What’s red and white and freckly all over?”

  I leaped out of the hammock and started chasing Julia, as she fled with a scream. Laughing and ducking down the worn porch steps, we raced all around the lawn where, as kids, we’d spent summer nights playing kick the can, capture the flag, freeze tag, and whiffle ball.

  Running after her, I was hit with a gust of how many years I’d known Julia, how sophisticated she looked this evening in the silver-white dress that she’d restyled with a handkerchief hem, and how long it had been since we’d chased each other around this lawn. Tonight suddenly felt painful, like the end of something, or the beginning of something else.

  I didn’t know whether to grieve it or celebrate it.

  Julia turned on me, as she always did, changing the rules and going after me now, then grabbing me—“Gotcha!” Her long arms wrapped around me; her skin smelled like her favorite honeysuckle perfume.

  “Girls.” Mrs. Tulliver had appeared on the porch. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” we chorused.

  And just as quickly as we had been kids again, it was over.

  Halfway up the turnoff to Bay Walk, I slipped on Mrs. Tulliver’s thick white wedges, which I’d been letting dangle from my fingers.

  “Running like that made me feel like I was back in sixth grade,” Julia said, with a glance behind us to the house.

  “I was thinking the exact same thing.”

  “You ever miss us living at Whisper?”

  “Sometimes. Remember when we short-sheeted your parents’ bed?”

  “Or when you broke your arm falling out of the plum tree?”

  “After I warned and warned you!” Julia made a mock-serious face, but now I remembered how frightened she’d been at the time. “Remember how every morning, we’d eat Alpha-Bits on the porch and watch the sun come up, waiting for the green herons or whistling swans?”

  “We’d get a dime if we got your Grandpa out in time to see them.”

  “Aw, man. Grandpa.” Julia’s grandfather, who’d died years ago, had loved those birds. I hadn’t even thought about green herons or whistling swans—or, come to think of it, Julia’s grandpa—for ages. But I’d always felt at home at the Tulliver cottage. From the patched screens and warped floors, to the iron latch-and-handle door fixtures, to the kinked beach-plum trees by its windows, Whisper’s shabby beauty was etched in my brain.

  “What if we moved back in next year? Mom said we could if we wanted. She misses us. The Morgue is fun, but it’s not home.”

  “Could be cool,” I told her. I’d never hurt Julia by saying that I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend my next summer on Sunken Haven. Phoenix’s illuminating warning and now this falling-out with the Burkes had been shifting my thoughts about this place. I didn’t have the same faith in it. How could I?

  Gil had said he wasn’t coming back, either. He was hoping to have a paid internship next summer, and we’d talked about how maybe I’d join him in the city, take a waitressing job at one of those fine-dining restaurants, where the bread guy came around with tongs and a basket of rolls.

  Would Julia want to come with me? Was she ready to leave Sunken Haven, too? Would she ever be ready? Was this our last summer together?

  It seemed almost outrageous, an almost impossible thought.

  The dinner tables had been set up by the harbor. White linen tablecloths, weighted down by Mrs. Train’s silver place settings, flapped in the bay breeze. Mrs. Train herself stood at the drift line, her tomato-red pants rolled above her blue-white ankles as she told people how to heat the stockpots using the outdoor burners.

  Mrs. Train was the lady who made sure nothing happened any different from the year before at Lobster Party, right down to using her personal place settings that could serve over a hundred people and were kept stored in a gun safe at the yacht club. I wondered if Mrs. Train knew the Burkes had banished me from the host table. She had never been expressly mean to me. Just ignored me, mostly. Did she dislike me, too? Had she talked against me after I’d won the Junior Cup, or thought my jean shorts meant that Sunken Haven’s standards were lowering?

  Tonight, all of the old guard seemed tarnished, capable of harsh thoughts and strong words. Every moment was overlaid with all my doubt.

  Gil and Tiger were sharing a smoke while they waited for us on the library steps. From a distance, seeing them together, I was startled by how perfectly Sunkie Gil looked. It stopped me. He hadn’t had his hair cut since he’d been here, and it had grown out to the same tousled shagginess as Tiger’s, with the same side part, the same longish sideburns. In his checked cobalt-blue shirt, red rep tie, navy blazer, khakis, and boat shoes, Gil could have stepped out of an advertisement for an East Coast boarding school.

  “I promise we’ll get through it,” he’d told me. “Six hours and it’s done.”

  As if Lobster Party was just an event, not a way of life. He’d had me believing it. When I’d slipped on my dress, when I’d allowed Dot to play hair salon, all I was really doing was thinking beyond Lobster Party, to when Gil and I would be together again. I hadn’t given much thought to tonight, other than knowing I had to endure it.

  But Gil was different. He wanted it, though maybe I had never realized till now just how much. What I did know was that in the short time that he’d been here, Gil had been relentlessly revising himself, learning absolutely everything about fitting in. Now he’d done it, he did fit in; nobody could have known the behind-the-scenes, furious effort it had taken to bury that Alabama boy. All that was left was the polished surface. It all hit me so forcefully now; while I’d been focused on staying me, Gil had been absolutely focused on changing—and his new identity was flawless.

  I stared at him, the gorgeous summer colors of him, the way a kaleidoscope image suddenly sharpened into its final, exact pattern. Of course Gil saw tonight as a way of life.

  Of course Gil was coming back to Sunken Haven next year.

  “Did you know they cook the lobsters in the same water they catch ’em in?” Gil asked me as the guys stood up. He dropped and stubbed out his cigarette in the sand.

  “No. I didn’t.” Even his voice sounded a little different to me—more high class. Or was I being extra insecure tonight? After all, it wasn’t wrong for Gil to learn how to succeed here—was it?

  “Yep, it’s a centuries-old tradition.” He reached out to tug one of my braids. I almost flinched; my hairstyle seemed so dumb now.

  “You okay?”

  “I gue
ss.”

  “Arright, then.” He gave me a quizzing glance. As we took the stairs, he waved and called out a good-bye to Mrs. Train, whose face melted into a smile.

  “I’ll do my best to see that you’re served a nice big lobster!” she called to him.

  “Thanks, Mrs. T!”

  “You’ve sure got everyone eating out of the palm of your hand,” I told him.

  “Ain’t no one can touch my Burke charm.”

  “Most people didn’t know there was such a thing as Burke charm, till you.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’m a necessary asset to my family.” There was a note of hope in Gil’s voice. I wanted to shake him for it. For valuing them like he did.

  “Listen, Fritz. I’ve said it before.” He pulled me nearer as we got to the top of the stairs. “But I want to say it again. How much I appreciate this.”

  “Let’s leave.” The words popped out before I could stop them.

  “What?” His stare was doubtful, maybe even slightly annoyed. “Come on. You really want to bolt on me now?”

  “I only meant . . . no, I’m sorry,” I said. “Flight impulse.”

  He took my hand and squeezed. “It’s okay. I get it.”

  But as we entered the library, I could feel that same impulse smack me backward, because it was the last thing I’d expected.

  Jean Custis looked absolutely beautiful.

  It was an image so overwhelming that I couldn’t hold in the entire picture of her all at once; even the details hit me like shards of glass.

  She was wearing a leafgreen, silk sundress that must have come from one of those Madison Avenue department stores, with straps as thin as Christmas tinsel, and she’d paired it with silver ankle-strap sandals that added a hip, city flair. Her hair was styled high on her head, so sophisticated, like a girl on a Grecian urn, and she’d gone for some shimmery, barely there makeup. She hardly even seemed like herself, the way she was standing with her shoulders back and her chin tilted. Who did she remind me of? Someone. She looked so poised and sure of herself. Like she’d been waiting all her life for this moment.

  Her sister. Daphne. That’s who she reminded me of.

  Of all the things I’d never liked about cheerleading, I’d most dreaded those final, gut-knifing pregame minutes, standing at the edge of the tunnel, when I could hear the loudspeaker and see the blinding field lights. As we all waited for our squad captain to give us the signal, the fear would hit me all at once, and I’d think No way. I can’t. I’m gonna look like an idiot out there. I’m gonna fall on my face, split my shorts, crack a rib.

  This was happening to me right now.

  Gil kept a light touch on my waist as we met up with Oliver at the circulation desk. Tonight, it was stocked with ice-filled buckets of wine, rows of goblets, and plastic trays heaped with traditionally unfancy cheese cubes, salami, grapes, and crackers.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said.

  “Me, either,” said Julia. “Ollie, bring me a wine, please? How are you doing?” she whispered, as we edged away from the bar crowd, over to the juvenile book section, where there was more room to breathe easy.

  “Why didn’t I try to look like a knockout tonight?” I asked. “I feel like I got set up for some kind of girlfriend competition. I mean, check out Jean, would you?”

  “Fritz, you can’t sweat this for a second.”

  “My logical brain knows this wasn’t some evil Jean-masterminded plan, but it feels really messed up.”

  “Oh, please. Don’t even bother about her.” Quickly, Julia pulled a book from a shelf. “Remember our very first summer together, when Hurricane Camille hit and we curled up on those bean bags and read a million Nancy Drews? Look, here’s The Secret of the Old Clock! Fritz, stop looking over at her.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m not.” Jean’s nails had been polished the most delicate shell pink. Her toenails matched. Wow, even the toenails.

  “Clue of the Tapping Heels,” Julia continued, reading the back of the book. “The Secret of Shadow Ranch.”

  “The Sign of the Twisted Burkes,” quipped Oliver, as he appeared between us. “They just came in.” His jaw lifted, indicating them. I only glanced over for a second; I didn’t want to meet Weeze Burke’s eye.

  There was something about this deeper protectiveness from both Oliver and Julia that made the whole scene worse. I could feel myself all wrapped up in their care. Since when was I the fragile one? The one in need of protection? How had Jean Custis gotten the upper hand?

  Why was this night so much wronger than I’d anticipated?

  “I’ll see you later on.” Gil, veering up behind Oliver, gave me a smile that seemed to reach all the way to the bottom of my heart. “Are you cool?”

  “I’m okay,” I said. But I wasn’t. I wanted Gil to see me, to really get it, to see everything I was up against, how small I felt, how rejected. Because if he did, then he’d reach out and grip my hand in his, and he’d lead me out of this library, all the way down Bay Walk and to the dock, where we would wait for the very next ferry and jump on it without even a word exchanged, because we’d both completely understand that if we wanted to stay together, we had to get the hell out of this place.

  But Gil stayed oblivious, choosing not to hear my unspoken wishes, hanging out for a couple more moments. As the Burkes moved deeper into the party, he went to join them. I watched Gil work his space, shaking hands, saying hellos, the perfect gentleman.

  He stopped at Jean and spoke to her politely, though at a distance—I knew he could feel me looking at them. But in the seconds since he’d left me, I felt like a bell had rung, signaling tonight’s new agreement—the one where, for six hours, we officially mattered less to each other. As in, Gil wasn’t going to stop talking with Jean because it made me feel uncomfortable, and I wasn’t going to stop staring just because he didn’t like it.

  Together Gil and Jean seemed to agree on what to do next, as they began to move toward the Burkes. I watched as Weeze spoke to Gil, moving in and placing her hand on Gil’s forearm in a way that took me by surprise. Whoa, I’d never seen so much warmth radiating from Weeze Burke. She’d really thawed on Gil. It was as if, over the past few weeks, he’d passed some sort of loyalty test, and she’d decided he truly belonged with her family now.

  That was it. She had accepted him.

  Junior, at Weeze’s side, also seemed to catch a wisp of their moment. He said something and motioned toward the bar. Weeze shook her head. She wanted Gil, not Junior, to fix her drink. Junior’s face went stony.

  But Gil was happy about this victory. I saw it in his closed-mouthed smile, his alert and cheerful turn, the way he strode over, pitched his palms against the desk as he spoke to the bartender, one of the local Bay Shore boys, a new kid who looked at Gil respectfully and stepped to the side as Gil moved behind the bar himself to pour out Weeze’s usual—a glass of white wine with a splash of Perrier.

  When Jean’s parents circled in closer to start chatting with Carp, and Gil rejoined Weeze and Junior, their group coziness pained me. I felt like I’d fallen so far outside of their ranks that my very presence was an intrusion, maybe even a disgrace.

  But then Jean suddenly looked up and glanced over at me, and her eyes got all wide. Like I’d done something to shock her. What was it? Was she surprised to see me here at all?

  All these years that I’d been coming to this island, all the books I’d read in the Sunken Haven Library, all the games of tag I’d played on the dunes and Great South Bay, all the Punch Nights and Lobster Parties, all the sunsets and thunderstorms—it all added up to a tonight where I was nobody, a zero.

  “Be right back,” I told Julia and Oliver, though I wasn’t sure if that was even true, I had so little desire to stay; but the only place where I could safely escape was the ladies’ room, a quick trip down the library stairs and around the corner.

  Thankfully, the restroom was empty. I ducked into the last of the three stalls and stood there for a moment. My shoulders presse
d against the cold wall, listening to my heartbeat.

  It wasn’t until I was finished peeing that I heard the door swing open, and I heard voices I recognized as the girls came barging in.

  “She can’t help if she’s stacked,” Sara Train was saying in that whiney way of hers, “but if she’s going to put them out like that, people will talk.”

  “Did you see her in her tube top the other night?” Rosamund Wembley chimed in. “Were we at a barbecue or a disco?”

  They were talking about Deirdre Poe, who was Tiger’s brick house of a visiting college girlfriend. Her huge chest, no matter how she covered it up, had been making a catty kind of news all week.

  “When you have boobs like that, you start to rely on constant attention,” said Sara knowingly, although in that department, she herself only had a pair of mosquito bites. “You should have seen her pushing them out for Gil Burke the other day at the club.”

  The cool delight that usually splashed over me whenever I heard Gil’s name froze with Rosamund’s next remark. “Gil better watch it. He’s got plenty on his plate as it is.”

  This comment was followed by laughter.

  I kept quiet as two kittens, waiting.

  But I’d never have been prepared for what came next.

  “Do you think it’s really true what Junior said about Gil and all his shady meetups with Jean Custis?” asked Sara. “Or is that only Junior telling his usual tales?”

  Okay, I hadn’t heard that right. Sara had said something else, something innocent.

  “Between us, I highly doubt it.” Rosamund’s voice was smug. “I mean, we’ve all known Jeanie our whole lives. She’s such a prude.”

  “Until she’s wasted on gin and tonics. Then she might be capable of anything,” reminded Sara. “And you have to wonder what Bertie thinks about all this secret romance, since the story on Jean and Bertie is they haven’t gone all the way yet.”